


Wake Me Up

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Confusion, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Nobody Actually Dies, eliot is a paranoid idiot in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: Eliots pretty sure Quentin keeps dying.





	Wake Me Up

Eliots eyes flutter open, and for a moment, he’s startled by the TADA sign blaring bright and beautiful in the peripheral of his gaze. His right hand comes up to block it, and he groans as he attempts to push himself upright. But a soft, calm warmth holds him steady and he looks down. 

Oh. 

He smiles softly, sleep riddled and stares down at him for a moment. His head is on Eliots lap, while his legs are dangling off the couch, and his arms are wrapped tight around Eliot’s waist. Eliot reaches down and lets a hand cart through Quentins hair softly, careful to not wake him up, as he tries to remember how they got here.   
  
Right. Alice broke up with Quentin, Quentin wanted to drown his sorrows, and Eliot wanted to get drunk. Margo had been there as well. And at some point she’d disappeared upstairs with –  
  
Oh, he was going to give her _hell_ for leaving them for Todd. Honestly. If she wanted a quick dick she could’ve just gone to the courtyard and found literally anyone more suitable than Todd.   
  
Fuck Todd.   
  
He can’t even say that anymore because Margo’s gone and taken the sentence literally.   
  
Dammit.   
  
When had they gotten to the point of drunkenness that they’d decided the couch was a good place to sleep, though? Especially Quentin who, if Eliot makes any wrong move, is in serious danger of falling off the couch and dragging Eliot with him. If he shifts his hips even slightly, down they’ll go. Eliot contemplates reaching down and adjusting Quentin, but that’s when he sees it.  
  
Or, rather, notices the _lack_ of something.  
  
The lack of Quentin’s chest moving with soft, sleepy breathing.   
  
As in, Quentin is not fucking breathing.   
  
What the fuck? What. The. _Fuck_.   
  
He jerks so quickly he barely has the chance to realize they’re both falling to the ground. And he’s just about to freak out, scared out of his mind that he’d gotten Quentin so drunk he’d fucking killed him. The panicked breath is barely building up in his chest when Quentin lets out a disgruntled groan, and soft, sad, sleep dusted eyes peer up at him in utter confusion.   
  
“Wha …” Quentin adjusts, looks up at him through narrowed eyes, still puffy with sleep. He unravels the pretzel of limbs they’ve become and sits up against the couch, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “Oh god,” He groans, “How much did we drink?”   
  
Eliot just blinks at him.   
  
Either he’s still drunk or Quentin just came back from the dead. Because he wasn’t breathing. And Eliot is a lot of things, but he is not crazy. So it’s not like he’d just imagined Quentin’s chest being as still as it was.   
  
Then again, with as much as he drinks, the likelihood of him going crazy?   
  
Fuck.   
  
“Too much,” He replies, quiet, when Quentin turns his gaze back on him.   
  
“Why are we on the floor?”   
  
He shrugs, shaking his head to clear out the clearly alcohol and sleep induced image of Quentin lying dead in his lap. “Because you were dangling off the couch, I moved a smidge, and in true Quentin fashion, you had to drag me down with you.”   
  
Quentin sighs, leaning his head on Eliots left shoulder. His eyes flutter shut and he takes a healthy deep breath. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, nuzzling in closer.   
  
Hesitating for a moment, Eliot swallows, looking down at him. He inhales with a soft shake of his head and reaches up with his right hand to pat the front of Quentins hair. He leaves his hand there and smiles as his head falls back to rest on the couch cushion behind him. “We should probably get up.”   
  
“’M too comfy.”   
  
“That’s because you’re still half asleep.”   
  
“I don’t mind waking up with a sore neck.”   
  
Eliot chuckles. “You say that now.”   
  
“I’ll stand by it when I wake up.”   
  
“Liar.”   
  
  
**  
  
The next time it happens, they’re both in the study nook. Eliot’d been lying down, practicing a simple illusion spell in the air above him when Quentin crawled in and curled up next to him, sighing dramatically.   
  
Next thing he knew a bottle of whiskey appeared, and they got so drunk they couldn’t even begin to figure out how to crawl out through the small entrance.   
  
So when Eliot wakes up with an aching bladder and a stinging headache, he wholeheartedly believes for once it’s not his fault. And that Quentin is the worst. He looks down at the menace, unable to will the smile away as he reaches over to brush the locks of hair out of Quentins face.   
  
That’s when he stops, hand stilling in front of Quentins lips, where the hair dangling in front of his nose and open mouth is laying still across his face. Which seems fairly usual, but Quentins breath should be making that hair sway as if it were a soft breeze.   
  
If he were breathing.   
  
Eliots breath stutters to a halt in his own chest as he leans in closer. His hand moves down to poke at Quentins chest roughly once, twice, three times.   
  
And then Quentin’s inhaling as if nothing’s wrong and opening his eyes with this soft, half drunk smile. “Mm…. Eliot?” And his gaze is soft and sleep muddled. He’s fine and breathing and alive.   
  
Eliot exhales shakily and nods, “Yeah?”   
  
“Why are you poking me?”  
  
“Because,” he swallows and shifts until he can rest his head on Quentins chest. He presses his ear up close and brings his arms around to wrap around Quentins waist. “You were hogging the nook and I am a tall man, Q.”  
  
Quentin chuckles sleepily, and reaches up to carefully run his fingers through Eliot’s hair. “Fair enough. Back to sleep?”   
  
Eliot nods, swallowing thickly. “Back to sleep.”  
  
Even though there’s no way in hell he can fall back asleep now. It may have been his imagination, but he’s not taking any chances. He’s not moving until he’s sure Quentin’s breathing steadily the rest of the night.   
  
**  
  
He’s walking into Quentin’s room, a cocktail in each hand and a smile on his lips. “Q!” He exclaims as he edges the door open with his hip, “You have officially been single for two months and it’s time to celebrate!”   
  
When he turns around, the cocktails high in the air, Quentins lying still as a board on his bed. And Eliot hasn’t had a single fucking drink yet. He is as sober as he can possibly be. But Quentins chest isn’t rising or falling or moving at all. And the hair strewn across his face is as still as the air in the room. The cocktails crash to the ground with a screaming clatter as alcohol goes everywhere and Eliot clambers over the glass to the bed, just as Quentin inhales and rolls over with a confused, half asleep, and somewhat startled frown.   
  
Eliots hands go straight for Quentins face, cupping it carefully as he climbs onto the bed. “You’re okay,” he whispers, a little breathless, as his heart pangs angrily in his chest.   
  
Quentin blinks sleepily up at him, until his eyes fall shut and he leans into the touch. “Of course I am,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “Are you?” His eyes flutter open, and his hands come up to wrap over the top of Eliots wrists as he perks an eyebrow.   
  
Laughing awkwardly, Eliot nods and pulls Quentin in, cradling him against his chest. “I’m fine.”   
  
But he’s not so sure he is, because he might actually be going insane.   
  
**   
  
After three more near misses where Eliot’s pretty sure he’s going to have a fucking heart attack, he finally goes to Margo. He creaks open her bedroom door and peeks his head in. “Bambi,” he starts, as he slides in through the door and she looks up at him from her nail file, “I think I’m going insane.”   
  
She sets the file on the top of her knee and pats the space on the bed next to her. “How much have you smoked today?” She asks, as he climbs onto the bed and curls up with his head in her lap, the nail file falling silently to the side as her legs extend in front of her.   
  
“Cigarettes or —“  
  
“Not cigarettes, babes.”   
  
“Then nothing,” He mutters as he grabs her hand and places it atop his head so she can rake her fingers through his hair in the comforting way only she and Quentin seem competent enough to do.   
  
She hums as her nails dig into his hair with just enough pressure. “Then why do you feel like you’re going insane?”   
  
“Quentin keeps dying.”   
  
Her fingers stall for a moment, before he hears her swallow and they start moving again. “Nightmares?” She asks quietly.   
  
He shakes his head, pulling his knees up as close to his chest as he can in his current position. “Every time we go to sleep, I wake up, and I swear,” He twists his head around to look up at her, “I swear for a minute it looks like he’s not breathing. And then he wakes up and he’s fine.”   
  
“Maybe you’re just scared of losing him,” She murmurs, running her thumb over the top of his forehead softly. “And your alcohol muddled brain is telling you to make a move before it’s too late.” She raises an eyebrow, “Because he’s single, ready to mingle, and jesus, El,” She rolls her eyes with a smirk, “He needs to get laid. Who better to do that than you?”   
  
Eliot sighs, turning his head to her lap again. “It’s not that. And he’s not ready.”   
  
“So, you’re saying,” She tugs on a string of his hair, “you really think Quentin dies for a couple minutes every day, and you wake up just in time to witness his miraculous resurrection? Because, El, I love you, but that sounds insane.”   
  
He huffs, sitting up and glaring at her — though it holds no malice. “I did start with, ‘Bambi I think I’m going insane,’ so don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He sighs, shuffling around until he can sit next to her. “It seems so real, though.” One of her hands come up and grab his to pull it into her lap. “I wake up, and I look down at him –”

“Because you love him.”

He glares at her again. “Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that.” He sighs again, bumping his head back against the headboard, “I look down at him and he’s so still. And he’s not breathing. It’s just – it’s like he’s dead.”

“And you’re sure you’re not imagining it?”

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” He murmurs, turning to look at her, “Every time I wake up, I’m so scared this’ll be the time it sticks. And then he’ll be gone. And … I don’t think I’m ready for life without Quentin. Before, it was good.” He swallows, furrowing his brow as she laces her fingers through his. “We were good. But now that we have him …”

“I know,” She says, squeezing his hand, “I don’t know what I’d do without him now, either.” She sits up straighter, “But. I think this is all some weird ass manifestation of your feelings for him, trying to force themselves out.” Bumping her shoulder against his, she smiles, “Because your subconscious wants to kick your ass into gear.”

He looks up at the ceiling. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. _Okay_.”

**

He thinks it’s finally over, now that he’s spoken about it. Because it’s been two weeks, and Quentin’s curled up in Eliot’s bed every night, and not once has Eliot woken up to find Quentin dead. Or not breathing. Or whatever it is that’s been happening to him. All he knows is he wakes up to a breathing, lively Quentin, who’s giving him his best attempt at a smile, and who, by all accounts, seems relatively at ease.

Eliot’s finally able to sleep through the night again.

But they get drunk. There’s a party, and Eliot’s obviously the only one who can make a decent cocktail, and when he’s on cocktail duty, Quentin’s on drinking duty.

Getting drunk is deliriously awful and wonderful all at once. Because Quentin is so much more lively and giggly, and he doesn’t leave Eliot’s side. And despite making cocktails for a cottage full of drunk, horny college magicians, Eliot can’t make himself leave Quentin’s either. And for once it’s not because he’s scared he’ll come back to find him dead.

They’re camped out on the couch in the living room, laughing over something neither of them can remember anymore because they’re both so far beyond drunk, they can barely comprehend that they’re real anymore. Eliot leans forward, laughing loud and boisterous, and more free than he’s felt in months, and Quentin does as well until they’re bumping foreheads, laughter dying on their lips, a slow cautious death. And then they’re just _staring_ at each other as the music dies down around them, and the writhing bodies on either side of them just become a quiet warmth.

And somehow, before either of them know what’s happening, they both tip their jaws up until their lips brush against one another, and Eliot feels his lungs fill with Quentin’s warm, lively air. He inhales quick and greedy, and then they’re moving in synchronization. Lips pressed to lips, warm and desperate and hungry. His hands find themselves at the back of Quentin’s neck, tips of his fingernails digging into the skin there, while Quentin’s come up to Eliot’s hair, weaving into the locks of wavy, messy curls, digging in and scraping against his scalp in just the right way.

A soft sound works it’s way up and out of his throat until Quentin’s pulling away, breathing deep and staring at Quentin with a look Eliot’s never expected to see on his face. Until now. He swallows thickly, unravels himself from Eliot and stands up. Eliot’s heart falls for a moment, until Quentin’s hand comes out for him.

And then they’re making their way up the stairs to Eliot’s room, stopping every couple of steps as Eliot pushes Quentin against the nearest available surface to kiss him again. Quentin’s lips are soft, pliable, beneath Eliot’s, and it’s the kind of cool warmth that fills up that empty space deep in his bones that Eliot hadn’t realized needed feeling. Quentin laughs giddily when they nearly fall down the stairs, almost tripping over Todd – who Eliot’s too busy to even find the time to currently hate – and Eliot laughs with him, holding tight onto Quentin’s hips so they don’t lose balance.

They make it to Eliot’s room, crashing through the door, glued to one another. Stuck in this one moment, unafraid. Then Quentin’s pulling away, and his shirt goes flying across the room. His eyes dart up to Eliot, shocked, and it’s only then that Eliot realizes his telekinesis is what did it. He shrugs, and pulls his own shirt off before grabbing at Quentin to kiss him again.

And suddenly Eliot’s waking up to a blinding light from his window – which he mutes with a wave of his hand – and a burning warmth on his stomach and chest. He frowns, looking down, and his breath hitches at the sight of a very naked Quentin lying overtop his own similarly naked body. The warmth moves up to his heart, swelling and dancing through his veins as he tries to remember the night before – or, at least, what got them in this position.

He pushes at Quentin’s hair, tucking it behind his ear with a small smile as he breathes in. It takes him a moment to think the thought, to even wonder, but when he does, the panic settles quick and angry as the soft warmth around his heart gets trapped behind a cage of fear as he shoves Quentin off of him, rolling him over onto his back. Because Quentin is absolutely not breathing again. This can’t be his imagination. Because if Quentin had been breathing, he would have felt the rise and fall of his chest, would have felt the pressure up against his own chest as it relented and repeated.

If Quentin were –

“ _What the hell was that for_?” Eliot gapes as Quentin looks up at him with defiant hurt. He rubs at his ribs, where Eliot shoved him, and his jaw clenches as he scoots further and further away the longer Eliot stares. Something flickers behind his eyes, and then he’s nodding to himself and pushing off the bed, carefully and quickly gathering his clothes from the floor.

Eliot’s too confused to stop him when he looks back before disappearing through the door.

**

Quentin manages to avoid him for two weeks until Eliot convinces Margo to trap him in the Brakebills Library under the clever ruse of studying. He’s genuinely surprised when Quentin doesn’t even question it, he just gleefully drags Margo - glowering and ready to murder Eliot – to the library.

And when she sneaks away for the bathroom, pointing a finger at Eliot with a warning glare, she says, “Don’t fuck this up, or I swear to god, El. He’s so mopey. I will kill you if I have to comfort him alone again.” She leans in, whispering dangerously, “I can’t do this comforting shit alone. _Fix it_!”

He nods, moving past her and turning and walking around the bookshelves until he comes to a stop. Quentins sitting at a table studying like the good little student he is, face buried in some stupid text book. Eliot takes a deep breath and walks across the room and only stops again once he’s in front of the table, staring down at Quentin.

He clears his throats and Quentin freezes before sighing and looking up at him. “I should have known,” he murmurs, before carefully closing the book. “I’m an _idiot_.” His head wobbles for a moment as his tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, “Times two.”

Eliot frowns. “What – what does that mean?”

Quentin stares at him for a long moment, and Eliot makes extra sure to use the moment to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. “If you,” Quentin pauses to swallow as Eliots eyes dart up to his face, “If you didn’t want to – with– with me. That’s all you had to say, Eliot. What happened that night … You didn’t have to push me off you and,” his jaw trembles as he pauses and looks down at the book. His eyes are watering when they break away from Eliots. “Look at me like you’d made the worst decision of your life.”

“What? No.”

Jesus Christ how fucking insecure is Quentin? _What the fuck had Eliot done_?

Quentin looks back up at him. “What?”

“That’s not what that was,” Eliot says, heated as he rushes around the table and kneels next to him. “I thought you were _dead_. And then you ran off and –”

“Rewind!”

Eliot frowns, “What?”

“You thought I was dead? What the _fuck_ , Eliot?”

“You weren’t breathing! I woke up and –,” he stops, falling back on his haunches and staring up at Quentin with wide eyes. “And you were just – you weren’t breathing. And every time. I thought I was going crazy. But having you there, after what we did … I thought I’d killed you.”

Quentin blinks down at him. “I … wasn’t breathing.” Eliot nods, helpless, because he swears he’s not insane. He’s not. But then a slow, cautious smile forms on Quentins lips, as he reaches down and grabs at Eliots hands, “So you didn’t regret –”

“God, no. No. I love you – I wouldn’t–” He stops, eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean to say that. I mean. I meant it – but I didn’t mean to say it.” He pauses again frowning, “Why aren’t you freaking out about the fact that you weren’t breathing?”

Quentin shrugs sheepishly, pulling at Eliots hands until Eliot’s kneeling right in front of him again. He brushes a hand over Eliots hair, seemingly unafraid of messing it up. “It happens a lot,” he murmurs, as he pushes his chair out from under himself and kneels on the ground in front of him, “I have sleep apnea. Sometimes my body forgets to breathe, but I’ll wake up quick enough to breathe and fall right back to sleep. I’m not dying. Or dead.”

“Sleep apnea,” Eliot deadpans. “You have sleep apnea?” Quentin nods. Eliot stares at him for a long moment before a relieved, broken laugh bubbles out of his chest and he pulls Quentin into his chest, hugging him as tight as he can. “ _Jesus Christ, Q_. I thought I was going crazy or that I was killing you!” He pulls away and glares down at him – though it holds no heat. “You’re a dick. I was so fucking worried.”

“You were?”

“I kept trying to figure out how to wake you up without you thinking I was crazy.”

He tilts his head, “What about –”

“Q,” Eliot murmurs, slow, “I’d just rocked your world a few hours earlier. How the fuck was I supposed to react when I woke up and you were lying atop me, lifeless?”

“Throwing me off you like a wild horse and it’s rider –”

“An analogy not too far off–”

Quentin pulls away and smacks his arm playfully. “Shut up!” His cheeks burn red, and a warmth dances in Eliots stomach as he continues. “Throwing me off you isn’t exactly what i’d have suggested. You know. If I were actually suffocating to death.”

“I was going to attempt CPR!” Eliot exclaims, reaching up and grabbing Quentins hands so he can lace his fingers through them. He looks down at them, as he watches the way their hands seem to fit seamlessly together. He lifts their hands in the air between them, bringing Quentins knuckles up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to his middle knuckle.

Quentin shakes his head with a soft smile. “Yeah, no offense, but you’re the last person I’d want to give me CPR.” He leans forward, pulling their hands back towards himself, and Eliot can’t help but watch the way the light sneaking through the shelves catches on the edges of their skin, silhouetting their hands in an almost dance in the air between their bodies, “Though, mouth to mouth isn’t off the table.”

“Oh?” Eliot asks, eyes darting up to Quentins face. “No CPR, but I can give you mouth to mouth.”

“Mhm,” Quentin leans in closer, lifting up on his knees so they’re at eye level with each other, a breath away from each other’s face, “Any time you want, even. I don’t even have to be suffocating. How’s that sound?”

Eliot nods. “Not too awful, I suppose.”

“Though if you wake up and find that I’m not breathing,” He shrugs and shoulder and bumps his nose against Eliot’s before touching their foreheads together and closing his eyes. “Don’t panic because I’m not dead or dying.”

Eliot inhales slowly, intoxicated by Quentin’s scent as it wraps around his every sense. He gives an imperceptible nod as his own eyes flutter closed, “Don’t panic. Got it.”

He feels Quentins smile widen, as his cheeks brush against Eliots, and then he’s pulling away. Eliot opens his eyes with a confused frown, but Quentins moving to stand up, looking around the library. “Do you think anyone’s ever had sex in the library?” He asks.

Blinking, Eliot allows himself to pulled up with him. “Probably,” he smirks, “But there’s no shame in being late to the party.”

Quentin grins, wide and open and oh god he’s fucking beautiful, Eliot feels like he’s been knocked off his feet. “Better late than never?”

Eliot nods, yanking Quentins arms until he crashes into his chest with a soft ‘oof’. “Better late than never,” He agrees as he leans down and presses his lips against Quentins.

 


End file.
